Memories
by Eady of Old
Summary: A series of 100-word stories depicting moments from the lives of our favorite "spot of trouble" valet and head housemaid-turned-lady's maid.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **A series of 100-word stories depicting moments from the lives of our favorite "spot of trouble" valet and head housemaid turned lady's maid.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Downton Abbey or these characters.

**A/N: I initially posted these on tumblr, but upon request, I have compiled them into one story. As I write more, I'll add additional chapters. They are in no particular order as to time period and run the range from fluff to angst. T****hanks to awesomegreentie for the title and everyone on tumblr for the encouragement :) **

**Reviews are always appreciated.**

* * *

**Relief**

He was supposed to return from London hours ago. She worried endlessly, returning downstairs at every opportunity to see if he'd come back yet.

Each time, Mrs. Hughes just shook her head.

He likely missed the last train to Downton. But why?

Nothing could be done until morning, so she walked to the cottage, alone. She did not sleep.

The next morning, he arrived on the milk train and met her at the house, an explanation on his lips. All that mattered was he was there. She did not care who watched as she threw her arms around him.

* * *

**Mending**

They knew how to sit together, quietly. The silences were comfortable.

He would read quietly as she did some mending for Lady Mary. Sometimes when he looked up, he would catch her smiling at him.

"What is it?" he'd ask.

"You."

His eyes would crinkle in embarrassed amusement as he smiled back at her. Just being in her presence lifted his spirits. That a woman like her would look at him at all, let alone with such an expression of tenderness, amazed him.

Somewhere deep inside him, another stitch was added to the slow healing fabric of his torn soul.

* * *

**Argument**

They had an argument. She could barely remember what it was about. The hotel, perhaps, and their future.

It didn't matter.

Her heart ached from the pain of it, from the words she'd said in anger.

"I love you," she wished she'd said to him.

Hours went by before he came home, the familiar tap of his cane on the steps bringing her downstairs.

"I just want us together-" he began as she came to meet him.

"I know," she readily agreed, "That's how I feel-"

But her words were cut off by the kiss of his lips on hers.

* * *

**Picture**

The cell was cold and dark, and it stank of fear.

He faced an uphill battle, proving he did not kill Vera. He wanted to have faith that the truth would set him free. But he had no such delusions about justice. Vera had put him in prison before.

At least Anna believed in him. He had her love to carry with him. They were now bound together as husband and wife. "For better or for worse," he said aloud, not adding, "til death do us part."

Death may part them too soon.

But at least he had her picture.

* * *

**Poem**

The slip of paper she found in her apron pocket contained his handwriting. A poem. Not his own words, but beautiful ones nevertheless. She read them in his voice, letting the ebb and flow of language carry her away with his deep, subtle tone.

She was called away for a task before she could finish, so she tucked the paper back into her pocket. Removing it in her spare moments, she re-read the lines over and over, bits and pieces in stolen moments, but never the whole.

At the end of the day, in the courtyard with none else but him, she pulled out the paper and handed it to him.

"I want to hear you read it," she said.

* * *

**Grief**

He sat with her after she got the telegram.

"Will you go to the funeral?" he asked after a time, interrupting the silence.

"Of course. She was my mother."

He could not offer to go with her. He did not have that right. But he held her hand just the same, and she smiled at him in thanks.

"She would have liked you."

"I doubt that." He was older, a felon, and not yet divorced.

"Not at first, perhaps. But.. she would have eventually. If she knew you the way I do."

He held her as she started to cry.

* * *

**Suspicion**

He knew she suspected him. But she never said a word.

It lay between them - a secret, yes, but until she asked he could not deny it, could not protest his innocence.

If he were innocent. That was a matter for debate.

They circled around it for months. He brooded and she fretted. Finally, it came to a head. She asked the question he'd been dreading.

"Were you the one who… ate the last of Mrs. Patmore's strawberry jam?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here are a few more drabbles I've done recently. I note that I try to write them at 100 words and exactly 100 words. Again, in no time order and with no particular genre.**

* * *

**Nightmares**

Sometimes he had nightmares. He would cry out or struggle with imaginary foes. She would ask, but he refused to discuss them.

Then one night he accidentally struck her in his sleep. No marks were left, but he could have drowned his guilt. She forgave him immediately but appealed for answers. In the dark privacy of their bedroom, he told her some of it.

Prison. War. Vera.

He gave her broad strokes and few details, but it was enough.

When he finished, she simply wrapped her arms around him and whispered, "You're here now. I won't ever let you go."

* * *

**Young**

When they were together, he sometimes forgot their age difference. She made him feel young, far younger than he had ever been. Her smile turned back the clock.

Until the day she stopped smiling. She seemed older, lost to time. Dark days stole her youth as well as her innocence. He mourned it for her and he mourned it for himself.

Until a day came when she smiled again. Small and shy, it was like a sprouted seed from a lost harvest - a new beginning. For a moment, the years fell away from her, and they were young again together.

* * *

**Friends**

She knew very little about the new valet. He kept to himself much of the time, although he was friendly when addressed directly. Resolving to seek him out, she quickly found him a quiet but thoughtful companion. Despite their age difference and his superior position, he treated her as an equal.

"Where can I find more shoe polish?" he asked her one day, rather than seeking out Thomas or Carson. She showed him the cupboard in the boot room, and his thanks betrayed more than simple gratitude.

"Of course. What are friends for?"

"Indeed," he noted with a contended smile.

* * *

**Redemption**

He despised himself. The feeling grew in the soil of his father's harsh words, stinging more painfully than any blow. He threw himself into hard work, and when that was gone, into a bottle of whiskey. His wife's vitriol sharpened his self hated until he ended up in the cell he always feared would be his fate.

The second chance was unexpected and undeserved, but he took it anyway, just as he learned to accept _her_ kindness. She was so gentle and accepting, a personification of redemption.

"I'm not worthy of you," he told her. She never convinced him otherwise.

* * *

**Soiled**

Ruined. Spoiled. Dirty.

She could not escape those words, the imprint they left inside of her. No matter how much she scrubbed, she could not remove the taint.

And she could not let it touch _him_, the man who meant the world to her. It would destroy him. He'd seek vengeance for her, she knew, and then he'd be arrested and taken away. Hung. All because of her.

She had to keep him safe from it, her secret, the evil that now coated her skin like poison.

"I can't let him touch me," she told Mrs. Hughes, "because I'm soiled."

* * *

**Draft**

She could not be glad of his injury, even if it meant he was safe from the draft.

But she could see his eyes darken as the young men went off to war, standing tall in their uniforms, almost eager to prove themselves. His jaw tightened. No one else noticed but her.

"Even without the injury, I couldn't re-enlist," he told her one evening as they sat together in the courtyard. "Not with a dishonorable discharge."

"Because of the regimental silver." He nodded.

Anna sighed, recognizing both his pride in his service and the shame of losing it.

* * *

**Strength**

She was stronger than he imagined - her body physically stronger. He leaned heavily on her slight frame as she helped him home to the cottage, his knee having twisted on a miscalculated turn. She bore the added weight without complaint, taking small steps as she steadied him.

While he hated leaning on her, he marveled at having someone so ready to assist him. She had insisted, not waiting for him to ask.

"Thank you," he told her when they'd arrived home.

"You don't ever have to thank me for such help," she responded, "but you're welcome just the same."


End file.
